


Until Darkness Aligns

by Azertyrobaz



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Found Family, Gen, Mandalorian Culture, Reflection, Stream of Consciousness, lost family, the great purge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26274886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azertyrobaz/pseuds/Azertyrobaz
Summary: But now it is ten years later and he is absurdly still alive and this new responsibility arises and he wants to be there for the little one. By removing his helmet, IG-11 had made him see reason: faced with his own mortality, his last barrier against the outside world discarded, he realized he wanted more time. He wasn’t ready to let go. So he’d stubbornly clung to that thought as he disposed of Gideon. Not just yet.Din reflects after the events of the first season and remembers what he has lost.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Comments: 14
Kudos: 59





	Until Darkness Aligns

**Author's Note:**

> This 'what if?' angsty plot bunny wouldn't let go following mentions of the 'Great Purge'. And with Season 2 fast approaching (woot, woot!), I felt I needed to write it down before canon crushed it.
> 
> Introspective Din, mentions of loss and death (Baby Yoda is fine, don't worry!). Takes place immediately after the end of Episode 8.

**Until Darkness Aligns**

_Fold them in your tender arms_   
_And hold on while you care to go onwards_   
_And fall_

_I’m falling in softly_   
_I’m catching the drift_   
_I’m following my…_   
_See through stitches tying our dreams together_   
_A glimpse of the dawn ahead_   
_Still restless_   
_Watching the sun together_   
_Elusive and tender_   
_I immerse and forget it_

_Enfold them in blue arms_   
_Like resting stars in daytime_   
_Tuck them behind cold sunlight_   
_Up in the world that’s passed_

_Until darkness aligns_

(JFDR, “Drifter”, _New Dreams_ )

First, they need to rest.

He needs to heal, and the child needs to…well, be a child for a while, he guesses. And not have to worry about stupid droids wanting to kill him aboard the ship or Imps capturing him. Being dragged around needlessly and subjected to the wills of people who clearly don’t have his best interests in mind.

That was then. Now _he_ would have his best interests in mind.

So he chooses a planet in the Outer Rim. One he’s been to before and knows. It’s tiny and of no interest to anyone because there is nothing worth pillaging or extracting. And the cold season lasts long enough to discourage any traveler looking for a place to hide. But the temperature is just right at the moment, and the forests lush and green. He knows which fish are okay to eat, and which plants are poisonous: his _buir_ took him and his _ori’vod_ here, long ago, and he remembers.

Thinking of his _vod_ , the first thing he does after landing and before taking a look at his injuries is to send a message on their usual – though scarcely employed recently – channel. He tries to convince himself that if he had fallen on Nevarro, he would know. Or the Armorer would have told him. Still, there is a worry in him that grips his guts and doesn’t let go. And won’t let go until his coded words receive an answer.

Only then does he start removing his armor, piece by piece, under the watchful but dozy eyes of his charge. He’s pretty sure some muscles or ligaments have pulled in his shoulder following his stunt with the TIE fighter. He is clearly lacking training with the jet-pack, and using his grappling hook had probably been a stupid idea. One his _vod_ will be sure to call him a _utreekov_ for if he ever hears about it: hopefully, he won’t.

The child is very quiet as he observes him, and he stops when the thought that he, too, might have been hurt enters his mind. Armor half discarded, he takes him in his arms. The little one burrows against his un-pauldroned shoulder. Din can’t tell if it’s him looking for reassurance and warmth in his sleepy state, or if he’s actually trying to tell him something.

“Are you hurt?” he still asks him unnecessarily, as he knows he won’t be able to answer him. Not with words, at least. Because the boy trills at him and one of his small hands comes to rest on his upper back. He feels heat spreading over his flesh, unnatural heat, and realizes too late what the child is doing. Or trying to do at least, as he moves him to his other shoulder.

“It’s okay, I’ll be fine, you don’t have to do that,” he tells him, even if his back is reminding him of his lies – he is _not_ okay and definitely _won’t be_ fine for a while.

The boy seems to grumble in reply, but his eyes are now completely closed. Din sighs and goes below deck with the intent of putting him in the berth so that he can rest – he will check him for injuries once he wakes. Despite his intervention, he can feel that his mobility is better already. Not completely healed, but much improved nonetheless. He tries not to feel too guilty as he lays the small, sleeping form on the flimsy padding of his bed.

An eye still fixed on the child, he takes off the rest of his armor, helmet included. The dry blood on his face drags on the way and hurts, reminding him he has several more injuries to take care of. He does his best in the small washroom, not lingering for too long on the sight of his face in the cracked mirror, and forces himself to ignore his sore muscles in the tepid water of the fresher next. There are small streams on the planet and he’d be sure to visit them tomorrow or the next day, once he had a few hours of hopefully uninterrupted sleep. He knows the water to be crisp, but it will have more effect on his battered ribs and back than the weak spray of his shower.

He shuffles back to the berth, puts on his last clean clothes and his helmet, then lays down next to the child, careful not to wake him. He is asleep in less than a minute, his last thoughts lingering as they always do on the family he has lost, adding Kuiil and a self-sacrificing droid to the list, with the distant hope that his brother won’t be next.

Din is not sure what makes him open his eyes first – the dream or the child. The boy next to him is awake, but the memory of his nightmare is still pregnant in the air around them. _Fire, smoke, destruction_. He can almost taste them on his tongue and his eyes burn.

“Hey,” he croaks, voice scratchy – did he scream out? Did he wake the little one? He hopes not, but knows it’s possible.

The black eyes staring back at him give him pause, as does the happy coo that follows. Din swallows hard and tries to focus on the present. He can’t let the past rule over his life. Not anymore. But the task is a difficult one when he can still just see in his mind’s eye the memories his nightmare conjured up. It’s impossible some days to go to sleep, torn between the need to forget for a few hours and the wish to be with them again.

But this was _then_ and this is _now_ , and Din gets up, the child securely held in his arms.

They eat, then go explore. A rapid scan had told him the previous day that they were the only sentient life forms in the vicinity, and this has not changed during their few hours of rest. The air is just as chilly as in his memory, and the boy clings to his warmth. They don’t go far, the both of them lethargic and craving quietude, and stop at a nearby stream. He sits the little one on a rock, and he doesn’t try to go in the water.

Up until he sees a fish, that is.

“Wait!” Din exclaims, grabbing him by his robes just as he is about to jump in pursuit. The child complains, and he suddenly remembers that he never checked him for injuries. The kid struggles in his arms, and he is not sure if it’s him wanting to go after the fish again, or his realization that he wants to examine him.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, sitting him on his legs, and he is reminded of his anger – with a good amount of shame thrown in the mix – when he’d been compelled to find out if the time spent with the Imp physician had left lasting _physical_ marks on the small child.

To his immense relief, it hadn’t. He’s quite sure he would have never forgiven himself otherwise.

But his present struggle to get the boy to understand he wants to make sure he is okay is taking him back to that dreadful day. Something he had thought dormant in him had suddenly awakened again when he found the child with the IG unit. The huge, innocent dark eyes gazing at him drawing up painfully buried memories and forcing him to focus on one thing only: to protect. No matter the cost. But then he’d been blinded by beskar and what it meant to his people. By his mission. By his role in the community. And he had struggled to remember what was supposed to come first. Mandalorian or human being? And he’d _failed_ to recall he was both. Had been both, years ago. His mistake only lasted a few hours, but the cost was dear – and he still had no news from his _ori’vod_ that morning.

The little one eventually stops moving long enough for him to divest him of his clothes and look him over. Because of his healing powers, he can’t be sure if he was hurt at any point in the past, but he looks fine now, and Din breathes a sigh of relief. The mythosaur pendant is still there against his small chest, and the boy grips it in his claws, as if he is scared he wants to take it away.

“It’s yours now,” he vows, and the small form settles, appeased, ears lowering.

The fact that he is unharmed means one less thing to add to the mountain of guilt already gnawing at his soul. He had been surprised – more than surprised, _stunned_ – when the Armorer barely laid any blame on him following the Nevarro debacle. His mind had nicely provided a quick appraisal of the number of helmets in the pile, and his only consolation was that none had looked tiny enough to belong to a youngling. Still, Din had expected reproach. Fury, even. And yet…

And yet his charge had been labelled a foundling, _his_ foundling, and his actions and the subsequent loss of life deemed warranted by the Alor.

Looking at the child now resting passively against his legs, clothes he needs to replace soon swallowing his small shape again, he realizes two things. First, he won’t have to train him to become a warrior. _Not this one_. He’d be allowed to be a kid. ‘ _Too weak_ ’, the Armorer had declared, when he knew perfectly well she was wrong. He had refused to take on foundlings and orphans following the Great Purge, knowing in his heart he had nothing worthwhile to offer them, not after what he had lost, not anymore.

But this boy… This boy was just a baby, despite his age. He had probably gone through his own kind of hell before he found him, but not the particular persecutions Din’s people had been subjected to. There would be no need to revisit them when he looked into his eyes. He’d been offered a blank slate, a second chance unmarred by Mandalorian tragedies.

The second thing Din realizes is that he can show him his face. He can share that with someone again.

He quickly scans their surroundings for sentient life forms once more, and decides now is the time. Part of him actually relishing the risk of unmasking outside. He wants to feel the wind in his hair again. The sun against his skin. Breathe oxygen in a place he once visited with his father and brother.

Din removes his helmet slowly, for fear he will spook the little one, sitting still for now. He winces again when the unhealed cuts on his face drag against the edge and he is not sure if there is a smile on his face because it’s been so long. But he is finally gazing at the child with his own eyes.

He waits.

The boy stands against his legs and observes him closely. Din holds his breath. He doesn’t look frightened or surprised that he has a face. On the contrary, he moves impossibly closer, climbing on his chest and placing his hands on his cheeks then in his hair. He can’t tell if the small noises he emits are happy or not. But he still hasn’t pulled away and Din is holding perfectly still, letting him explore. His palms are a lot softer than he expected against his skin, his movements careful, and he closes his eyes at the touch after a while, overwhelmed.

“Ah!” the little one reproaches, and Din obediently opens his eyes again, finding the boy’s tiny nose almost glued to his own. This time, he knows he is smiling, and the child mirrors the gesture, offering him pointy teeth.

They eat fish, the boy looking at him strangely when he doesn’t offer him the food raw but rather cooked over fire, and after making sure he is napping soundly in the ship, he goes for a swim in the closest stream. The water is freezing against his bare skin, but he relishes the feeling of being alive and screams out once his head is underwater, the yell silent. Screams at the loss and the pain until his lungs are empty of air and he needs to breathe again. Screams out again until his chest burns and his ribs ache. He lays down on the bank afterwards and feels at peace.

_He doesn’t want to die anymore._

The acknowledgment slows him down as he is putting his armor back on. It has crept up on him in increments – it’s not taking him by surprise. It had all come to a head when the IG unit had removed his helmet. Helmet he is now securing on his head, the memory still palpable at the slight pain he continues to experience. A pressure against his skull that needs to heal some more.

After the Purge and the death of his family, he hadn’t sought vengeance. Not at first. First, he had just wanted to be on his own. He had chosen isolation when others had chosen to group together in grief and remembrance. But that wasn’t who he was. So he’d buried his guilt at not having been there for his loved ones in their last moments, at not having died with them, and focused on providing for the remaining members of their diminished ranks, who were doing their own kind of grieving. And on every job he tackled as _beroya_ , every risk he took when securing a quarry, part of him welcomed the danger. The very real possibility that he could be taking his last breath. Because that would mean he could join them again.

But now it is ten years later and he is absurdly still alive and this new responsibility arises and he wants to be there for the little one. By removing his helmet, IG-11 had made him see reason: faced with his own mortality, his last barrier against the outside world discarded, he realized he wanted more time. He wasn’t ready to let go. So he’d stubbornly clung to that thought as he disposed of Gideon. _Not just yet._

Over the next few days, he focuses on that feeling. He plays with the child and lets him explore. He heals. He swims. He doesn’t feel the need to scream underwater and shares the moment with the kid instead. He remembers how to smile without his helmet. He wonders absently – and not so absently at night – if his children would still be alive today if he had been allowed to raise _kids_ instead of _warriors_. But deep down, he knows. Knows that the Empire would have still crushed them. And that it would have been even more painful to let them go.

He remembers the mechanic’s words on Tatooine. Peli. ‘ _You still have a lot to learn about raising a young one_.’ And she’d been right. He’d been struggling with the baby. Still is. He hadn’t been there enough for his daughters when they were that small. He’d been too busy fighting for a better world they would never get to know in the end. And yet he’d made the few moments he was given with them last. He had treasured those stolen instants. It was a curse as well as a blessing to still have those memories now.

Those who were too young or too old to fight usually took care of the little ones in Mando tribes. But he had still tried to spend as much time as possible with his girls once they were a bit older, and before he was meant to train them. More time than his _riduur_ , even, which he knew she had found strange. She had come from a long line of Mandalorians and had expected that with a name like his, she’d met her match. They were supposed to raise the greatest _verda_ following the fall of Mandalore. She had wanted sons and had died before knowing if the child she was carrying would finally be a boy or their third daughter instead. Din was secretly pleased with having girls, as they were allowed to be children _just a bit longer_ than boys. And to this day, he wasn’t sure if his wife had wanted a son to fulfill what she thought was her duty, or to finally have a child that looked like her more. Physical appearances were of little concern to Mandos, but he hadn’t missed her sighs when others commented on their daughters’ pretty hair and eyes. His _riduur_ had been light where he was dark. With fair hair, pale skin and the bluest eyes. Beautiful, but the opposite of their girls, who both took after him.

Still, their marriage had not been lacking in love and tenderness, but those moments were few and far between. Din had learned to settle for less at an early age, and knew that he would always love more than he should. Would always love more than he was loved back – it was one more curse he had to carry. One more blessing. Part of him would always crave safety, domesticity and warmth. No matter how much he tried to let go of his old life. The life he had known before becoming Din Vizsla.

That name his wife had admired so much had only been his adopted name. He’d been proud of his patronym, and honored it by becoming an exceptionally good warrior and soldier, thanks to the best education and training a Mandalorian could want. But following the Great Purge, he’d chosen to go by his old name again, which would grant him more anonymity. Few people had known. His _ori’vod_ , who’d called him a coward at first, not realizing that he was also doing it to protect _him_. Their new Alor, who had reacted more sensibly. Which was why Gideon’s carefree announcement had rattled him so – he’d been Din Vizsla longer than he had been Din Djarin, and his birth father’s name evoked the saddest moments of his life. Losing his family. Once. Twice.

And now, he has to wonder if his brother Paz is the last of his name, or if _he_ is. He dreads having to take on the name again and all it represents, but knows he would have to if it ever comes down to it. Other Vizslas might still be out there, he knows, but none had resurfaced after the Siege of Mandalore and the dissolution of Death Watch.

After almost seven days on the planet, he finally receives a message on their channel, and is given coordinates to reach. He is not completely relieved yet, and doesn’t know in what state he will find his _vod_ , but at least he knows he is alive.

The kid is securely held against his chest rather than in his probably uncomfortable homemade crib – he still has to figure out a more permanent solution for their sleeping quarters – and they set off for the two-day journey, frozen fishes assuring them they will at least eat well.

Still, he is sad to see the green planet go – the days had already started to become shorter and colder, but the trees and gentle streams had brought him a serenity he hadn’t experienced since Sorgan. He finds himself lingering on the memories of the peaceful village, especially when he plays with the kid, who’d been gifted his only toys there. His eldest daughter had been close to Winta’s age, and he wonders if her mother had somehow felt what he was trying to hide behind his aloof behavior. That this had been him protecting himself. Him not wanting to find out what it would mean to be a father now at 40 instead of 20, when he’d still been a kid himself. And part of him had been desperate to tell the kind widow the truth. The part of him that craved and would always crave more affection than any respectful Mandalorian should.

But now he would get to be a father again, and he hugs the child tighter as they slowly make their descent on this new planet, following Paz’s instructions on where to land. The atmosphere is breathable but extremely hot, and they are both happy to reach shelter quickly once they exit the ship.

He finds his _ori’vod_ alone in the cantina – it seems to be staffed only by droids, but he manages not to let that realization trouble him for once. He doesn’t even know if this place is the new location of the covert. It’s better if he speaks to his brother first, in any case. As he is not sure of the kind of welcome he is going to receive, despite the Armorer’s no-nonsense attitude on Nevarro.

They greet each other more warmly than he anticipated, and the taller man doesn’t react at the little one’s presence, so he assumes he has spoken with the Alor.

“You okay with the droids?” he asks immediately, and Din feels grateful that he would worry about it, and nods, signaling that it is fine.

“This is an old mining colony. There’s not much left apparently, so it’s mostly just droids and machines, now. It’s good cover for us,” Paz adds, which answers his question regarding the tribe’s presence on the planet.

The child is wide-eyed and wide-eared at this new environment, but mostly captivated by Paz’s impossible to miss presence.

“Ah!” he says, and tries to climb on the table. Din lets him when Paz makes a ‘come to me’ gesture. The boy happily complies and looks into his brother’s T-visor before raising his small hands. Paz is no stranger to such intimations and grabs the kid for a hug.

“Alor didn’t say he was so cute,” he explains, as if Din needed a reason. But he _knows_. Of course he knows.

Paz had similarly been unable to welcome any orphan or foundling following the almost extermination of their people. But when Din had decided to hide behind his old name and resort to the solitary role of bounty hunter, Paz had gone the other way, and resolved to scream his presence to the world instead, adorning the colors of Death Watch again. His ultimate _fuck you_ to the Empire.

“He’s a good kid,” Din agrees, and his _vod_ doesn’t contradict him and accepts the epithet. He is a _kid_ and would remain one for as long as possible. The fact that at fifty he still behaves like an 18-month old human baby greatly helping him in that undertaking.

“So what’s your plan, _vod’ika_?” he eventually asks, the little boy happy to remain on his much wider shoulders for now.

Din sighs, but not because of the nickname his brother used, as he knows it isn’t meant to tease. Paz had lost an older brother shortly before he was adopted into his family, following his rescue by Death Watch soldiers. And he remembers how terrified he had been because of it. Would the bigger boy hate him? Resent him even if he wasn’t trying to replace anyone? But instead, Paz took it upon himself to welcome him into the fold. He’d been the first to teach him what it meant to be a Mandalorian. How to speak. How to hold himself tall. How to fight. Defended him when other kids pushed him around or mocked him for being different.

He’d been the biggest presence in his life, in every sense of the word, especially following their _buir_ ’s death right after the Siege of Mandalore. Paz had then joined the Fighting Corps, and he had followed: he’d follow his _vod_ anywhere.

“I don’t know,” he replies, staring at the little one. “Probably look into finding his kind, as the Alor suggested.”

“You know the Moff survived his crash on Nevarro, right?” Paz presses, and Din swallows hard, shaking his head in the negative. But somehow, he’d known. It had been too easy.

Although they don’t have all the details, they both know the man had played a key role during the Purge. Paz won’t even have to ask for his help once he finds him, which he intends to do – he already knows he has it. Looking at his brother and his foundling, he is reminded that although there is a word to describe a child who has lost his parents and one to describe a spouse who has lost his partner, there isn’t one to describe a parent who has lost his children. It’s too unnatural. Neither of them needs to speak, as they both know what the other has lost. Paz a husband and two foundlings of their own.

“That beskar looks good on you,” he mentions out of the blue when the tension around them reaches a high even the baby can’t hope to break with his happy coos.

It takes a while for Din to understand what he means by that, but eventually takes it as an apology for jumping at his throat and calling him a coward back on Nevarro.

“Thanks,” he mumbles in reply.

“Beskar should always come back to us. Wearing it again, it’s…” But Paz stops.

“I know,” acknowledges Din, taking the child back into his arms when he sees him starting to tire. He’d always feel guilt over handing him to the Client, but his _ori’vod_ understands just as well as him what it means to wear beskar forged by the Empire again. Beskar collected during the Great Purge. It’s a small but meaningful way to get closer to the ones they lost. Wearing the beskar they might have worn back when they were alive.

“How many did we lose?” he finally has the courage to ask.

“We were not meant to hide in the sewers. The good fighters and the _adike_ survived. This is the Way,” is Paz non-answer.

“All the kids survived?” Din still checks, and his brother nods.

“We evacuated the young and the old right after you escaped. Those who stayed behind chose to, and knew what to expect. The ones who died fell as warriors.”

“Has the Alor arrived?”

“Yes, several days ago already.”

“Do I need to see her?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

And Din doesn’t want to, not if he can avoid it. Not if he can avoid looking at the people who’ve lost family members because of him.

“And no need to feel guilty, _utreekov_ ,” Paz adds, reading his mind. And Din smiles because he expected the insult to be thrown at one point and he’s glad it’s been said. The little one has fallen asleep in his arms and he nods.

“Okay,” he simply replies. “Not this time, but next time I’m here for sure,” he promises.

“You finally found something that got you out of your funk, I’m glad,” he says and Din does his best not to startle. He wonders if his brother will ever find something other than vengeance and violence, but doesn’t dare say the words.

“Foundlings are the future,” he utters instead.

“ _Oya manda_.”

“ _Oya manda_ ,” he copies, meaning the words, and hugs the child close to his chest. The child he’d get to train differently. The child who’d get to be a child. The child he’d get to cherish and nurture and protect and love in his own way. Maybe he’d find his people, maybe not. It didn’t matter. In the meantime, the first lesson he’d teach him would be to enjoy peace while it lasted, because those moments were rare.


End file.
